He Ain't Heavy
by EleanorRigbee
Summary: Dean was right. His morals really did get in the way sometimes...Because sometimes saving the day just isn't all it's cracked up to be.


Disclaimer: Don't own Supernatural. Wishes just ain't horses.

A/N: Had to get away from the angst filled angstyness that was **All Hell Breaks Loose Part 1**, so expect none of that here! In fact, you can ignore all of season two since this takes us all the way back to season one, **post-Faith**. My first attempt at humor (let alone Sam humor, because that boy's name might as well be Sorrow) so let me know how that worked out. Read and just drop me a review. In other words, keep me occupied till next Thursday.

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Dean weighed a ton.

Yeah Dean was shorter and Sam had about ten pounds on him, but right now he was tallying the extra weight of the freaking steel-toed boots and the leather jacket and that double cheeseburger Dean had eaten on, like, Tuesday.

Because Dean weighed a frickin' ton and there was no way that Sam was going to make it to their room, much less out of the parking lot. His knees were locking and his back hurt from being hunched over for so long and the pressure of his brother's jaw pressing right into the nook where his neck met his shoulders was starting to strain.

Oh, he was _so_ making Dean shave every morning from now on because the whole stubble thing was really starting to chafe. And no more M&Ms, he didn't care if his brother did consider them part of his daily fruit intake, because: a) they weren't and b) his knees were starting to burn and he was really starting to wonder if he couldn't get away with just dragging his inconveniently unconscious brother all the way to the front door (it wasn't as though Dean would ever know).

And maybe, if it hadn't been for the gaping wound on Dean's forehead he could have just done a fireman carry (or you know, dragged Dean's unconscious form, because it really was an option at this point) and gotten this over with. But no, Dean had to be entirely too accurate when it came to getting himself thrown through a wall and Sam couldn't muster the will to drop his brother on the asphalt.

Dean was right; his morals really did get in the way sometimes.

But morality didn't make this easier and it didn't make Dean lighter and it didn't make the tightness in Sam's chest that had less to do with annoyance and more to do with, oh, fear, lessen any. But Sam didn't want to worry right now, because worry wasn't going to carry Dean any farther than Sam could at the moment.

He could be angry about it, Sam figured. Anger equaled adrenaline; equaled getting Dean inside their room and inspecting the wound and making sure his brother was still a hundred percent in the head( or as close to a hundred percent as Dean ever had been).

He took another step across the black top, sticking to the shadows and hoping no noisy neighbors or insomniacs spotted him carrying Dean. They both looked more like felony than roughhousing at the moment, and being spotted would probably just make things difficult. More so.

Sam let himself stop for a minute and readjust his grip on the backs of Dean's legs. Right now his main concern was getting Dean inside and taken care of so that later he could lecture him on how _not _to goad the malevolent spirit of a crotchety old maid. Sure it had all been a ploy to get her attention while Sam salted and burned the old woman's collection of doilies which her spirit had decided to attach itself to, but his brother had just had entirely too much fun with it. The old woman probably knew that, hence, Dean's little trip through a wall. Remembering this, Sam took another step forward and made a mental note to attach his spirit to something that would earn him an afterlife worth of ridicule for Dean. Maybe the car. But Dean probably wanted the car for himself— Grunting, Sam felt his knee jerk from beneath him right before he found himself down on one knee with the entirety of Dean's dead weight pressing down.

The movement seemed to jostle Dean more than the rest of their trip combined because he managed a choked groan before his chin bore down harder against Sam's neck. It was enough motivation for Sam to pick himself up with no little difficult. Catching his breath he readjusted limbs, tried to better distribute the weight and took another step. Because he had to.

Because his brother was inconsiderate and reckless and weighed a goddamn ton and all Sam needed to do was get him to the motel room and make sure he was alright before he really laid into him. Because he was supposed to the badass hunter and the oldest and the smartest and all the things he was always trying to convince Sam he was and how did Dean expect to that if he got waylaid by the violent ghosts of little old ladies with doily collections for god sake.

And what the hell kind of example was he setting for Sam to get knocked around like this? Really Dad would have Dean's ass if he ever found out Dean had been bested by a centuries old grandma with a thing for crocheting.

His brother was just not allowed to that, that whole lying silently for long periods of time with ominous looking head wounds and too quiet breathing. Not with the heart thing just two months behind them.

Not ever.

And if that was unrealistic than reality could bite his ass because it had already made sure everything else was pretty much screwed, so it could just back the hell away from his brother. Now.

And while it was at it, reality could sure as hell take a few pounds off Dean, because Sam was starting to get seriously concerned with making it to their room now that his knees were starting to feel more like warm Jell-O and the denim of Dean's jeans was starting to slip more often in his sweat-slick grip.

Yeah, he was pretty sure he had completely paid Dean back for every piggyback ride he'd ever begged for, including that time in Boston when he'd begged Dean to take him site seeing and ended up riding on his brother's back for most of the day because the historic district was more than an any six year old could actually handle.

Getting the door open was a bitch with one hand and an actual key that required turning and such, but when he finally nudged the door open he could have sobbed with relief. Instead he opted to kick the door shut and shuffle his way over to the closest bed available.

Maybe if he'd stopped and planned it out better it probably would have ended better. Not with a face full of blanket and an out-of-commission Dean obliviously on top of him, successfully knocking all the air out of Sam's lungs for the second time that evening. Except now, it was more the impact of the crash landing and Dean's dead weight, than the fear that his brother might be seriously injured.

Because Sam was pretty sure that, by now, he'd not only paid back all childhood debts, he freaking _owned_ Dean because Dean was heavy and Sam could not move and this was practically _snuggling_. Really. The way Dean worked his jaw against Sam's shoulder could probably be concerned _nuzzling_ and all Sam needed was a witness or some photographic medium to black mail his brother till they were ninety. It all smelled too strongly of chick-flick to warrant anything less.

"Sammy?" His brother's voice was gruff, the words heavy and choked—like he'd swallowed a spoonful of sand or dust or cobwebs, or whatever else lurked in the corners of old ladies' haunted houses, cutting short Sam's plots for blackmail.

"_Sure _now_ you wake up."_ Had he been able to, Sam would have rolled his eyes.

"What happened?" He felt Dean move, lost contact with the backs of Dean's knees as Dean pushed himself up until he was sitting on Sam's legs. Surprisingly, it wasn't that much of a relief to have all the weight bearing down on his calves. Go figure.

Sam forced himself onto his arms and pulled his legs out from under Dean, barely having time to register the consequences of this action when Dean gracelessly toppled backwards off the bed, landing on the floor with a solid thud. Not through-a-wall bad, but still bad considering the preexisting head trauma his brother had sustained.

"Dean!"

He scrambled to the edge of the bed and peered down at his brother's prone form. Dean's eyes were clenched shut as one hand tentatively touched the impromptu bandage on his forehead. "Dude, no need to yell, I'm just down here."

"Sorry," it was a murmur, because now Dean was awake and in pain and anger kinda gave way to concern and making sure everything checked out. He helped Dean up onto the edge of the bed and got out their own 'enhanced' first-aid kit, stocked with Neosporin, medical tape, holy water and other things kits purchased at pharmacies usually didn't have. Not that those special additions were necessary as Sam checked for a concussion or any other major damage.

The cut on Dean's head wasn't so bad with the blood cleaned off, nothing that rubbing alcohol and a few carefully applied butterfly bandages couldn't take care off. It seemed that the mandatory two hour waiting period before sleep would be more precautionary than necessary, but Sam didn't bother sharing that bit of information with his brother. Not that he really needed to because Dean had seen Monty Python too many times as it was and everything was a frickin' flesh wound with him.

"C'mon Sammy I know I not concussed. Look, my eyes are the same size, no spots or nausea or little tweeting birds, I'm fine."

How was it all possible that his brother could even do that? Just sit up and tell him he was fine when Sam, not an hour ago, had been digging him out from under drywall and woodchips and hauling him across the parking lot, worrying that this time was _the_ time that something simple went really wrong.

"Whatever," Sam said, dismissing the question and walking over to the dresser. He switched on both the radio and television, turning the volume up more than any normal person would at one a.m. in a room with paper mache for walls, "I'm going to that diner around the corner—where we eat breakfast remember?—getting us something to eat."

Dean rolled his eyes at the mention of breakfast, because he probably didn't have to be reminded, because there wasn't anything wrong with him besides a headache and Sam knew that, but if Dean got to be overbearing when Sam was injured, than turn about was really only fair play. "I'm leaving these on and calling you in five minutes to make sure you're awake."

"Gee Nanny Sam, you sure you want to leave me all on my lonesome? Might get into trouble in this wild town. Why don't you just carry me along with you so you can keep an eye on me?"

Sam stuffed Dean's wallet into his jacket pocket, fingered the keys to the Impala and ignored his brother's remark. Because it was just Dean's tactless way of saying he was okay, his way of telling Sam to drop the mother hen act and the empathy voice. And yeah, he knew his brother was a grown man capable of keeping himself awake, but everything was still too close and too possible and the last Sam wanted was for something to happen because he was overly confident in Dean's ability to take care of himself.

Because his brother shouldn't have to take care of himself.

He heard Dean sigh and turned in time to see him rub his face, "Sorry man, just the head. Don't mind me."

"Never do." Sam shot back, rocking on the balls of his feet, grateful to be standing straight again. "Figured some of that old lady must have rubbed off on you when she laid into you."

Dean quirked a grin and looked better for it, "Whatever, I totally knew what I was doing. All part of the plan."

"If your plan included getting your ass handed to you by the miffed spirit of an old woman who used to spend her days crocheting, remind me to never listen to your plans again."

"Whatever, I'm brilliant." Sam laughed. "See if I save your ass next time with my cunning."

"Think that's the concussion talking." Sam laughed again, because they both knew Dean would always save his ass, or try to, knew it was a certainty between them they could both rely on.

Sam moved towards the door, throwing the question over his shoulder as he reached for the doorknob, "What do you want anyway?"

Dean was silent for minute, but Sam had no problem making out his order over the combined ruckus of the T.V. and the radio. Four fried chickens and a Coke. Or y'know, a cheeseburger and some onion rings. Pie if they had it.

"_Yeah, whatever,"_ Sam thought as he locked the door behind him. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and pulled up Dean's number and started walking, _"I'm bringing you a salad."_

_**-**_**End- **


End file.
